Devils and Details
by WhiteFires
Summary: It's been almost three years since Reichenbach and Sherlock is close to returning to the world. The only problem is he refuses to. One hospitalisation, a gunman and a couple of resurrections later, he finds himself exactly where he doesn't want to be. Includes Reunion and Reichenbach Explanation.
1. Deductions Outside St Pauls

_It's ridiculous how much research I've had to do for this fic; three hours of surfing the internet and I've only written 7000 words so far, and I'm still not sure if much of what I've written is accurate. __In light of upcoming exams, I probably shouldn't be using my time to write this, however procrastination is a favourite pastime and a longstanding habit of mine that I most likely won't be breaking soon unfortunately._

_This started out as an experiment to see if I could capture Sherlock's thought process when deducting, but soon developed into something quite a bit longer than originally intended. I wasn't going to include the reunion initially, but then it escalated and I found myself adding my favourite Reichenbach theory as well. I'm doing my best not to let it get out of hand though._

_I've been reading a lot of reunion fics lately and they all seem to follow very similar patterns; Sherlock returns to 221B, John is amazed, John punches Sherlock, quick explanation, everyone's happy. I have this irrational fear of cliques though so I'm trying not to follow this pattern._

_Like I said, this whole thing is an experiment, riddled with smaller experiments, which will hopefully lead to better writing skills. So I hopw you all enjoy my attempt at a Sherlock ficlet!_

* * *

The mundane walked past him on their way to daily life, not even bothering to raise their heads and take a look at the world around them; they were too preoccupied with their own small universes. He wasn't though. With just a quick glance he could tell exactly what they did for a living, probably where they were heading and much more besides. It still amazed him that people could be so interested in the irrelevant things when there was so much _here_. There was everything, and yet not enough at the same time.

Few of those around him – no, wait … _none_ of those around him ever bothered to look properly at things. For example, anyone who took a close look at him right now would be able to recognise him, granted they had heard of him or at least seen a photo of what he looked like three years ago. It didn't matter that he was wearing different clothes or his hair was dyed a lighter colour, it was a simple matter of observation.

Sherlock sat on a low wall outside St Pauls cathedral, casually observing those around him whilst waiting for someone to arrive. In the last hour, hundreds of people had strolled, hurried and jogged past him, and each one of them he had noticed. It was roughly nine in the morning, the sun hidden behind a large mass of grey that was indiscernible as individual clouds.

A woman in her forties walked close by him. Chipped nail polish. Painted her nails to stop biting them. Either it didn't work or she chipped the paint to distract herself from doing it.

Traces of blood trapped in the nail bed of the thumb. Spent a lot of time doing needlework. The blood came from when the needle slipped and punctured the skin underneath the nail.

Dry hands. Frequently uses alcohol sanitizer. OCD.

Fur around the lower parts of her legs and upper parts of arms and shirt. She had a cat.

Just across the grass, he could see a young female student sitting on the wall opposite him; she was writing in a notepad by balancing it awkwardly on her knee. She had her shoulders brought up to her ears and was hunched over her work. Short hair that up until recently had been quite long and usually kept loose. Hunching over had become a habit to stop her hair from falling over her shoulders.

A sudden jerk in her finger. Long hours of using a computer. A result of hand being in the same position for a several hours.

She held her pencil with her fingers slightly spread out, her thumb positioned between index and middle fingers. The skin was harder on her left hand. She played an instrument; he could see lines of white powder on her trousers above the knee, caused by resting the bow on her lap and impressions left by the strings on her left hand.

She stopped writing, put her notepad in her shoulder bag, stood up and began to walk away. One hand held the strap of her bag, the other hung by her side. All her fingers on this hand were separated evenly at rest. Cello player.

The man sitting a little further along the same wall was reading a book. There were stronger markings at the bottom of the spine; he usually read lying down.

He had several long thin burns on the side of his hands and upper forearms, easily visible with his short sleeved shirt. He was a baker; the burns came from the trays he handled. Probably worked at the Paul Bakery just down the road.

A man roughly thirty with cropped hair walked past. Dark red rings around eyes. Swam regularly, the marks were from goggles.

There was an unusual growth of hair on the back of his hands. He was on steroids. At first glance it seemed that the steroids were for enhancing his performance in sport, but there was a distinctive bulge in his pocket that resembled that of an inhaler. In that case he had asthma and the steroids were most likely used to reduce swelling and mucus production in airways.

Two men shook hands to Sherlock's left. One of them had bruised knuckles. A rifle shooter, the weight of the gun pressed down on his knuckles, leaving the bruises.

The other had noticeable nicotine stains on his hands. A long-time smoker of light cigarettes.*

He stood with his feet at a right angle. Fencer.

The first man glanced over at Sherlock before walking away with his companion.

A man in his early twenties; his jacket was thrown over his arm, revealing the majority of his arms. There were lots of small burns no more than halfway up his forearms. He worked with a deep-fryer; the burns were from oil splashes.

He had many small scars on his right hand middle knuckles. He sculled in a boat regularly.

A jogger ran past. They held their arms up, hands in fists. Boxer.

A middle-aged woman with smooth skin around her palms. Her hands appeared to be dry and her palms looked tanned. It looked like there was dirt underneath her nails. She worked with red clay.

A man with a bulbous nose; it was rounded and ruddy in appearance, particularly bad. Alcoholism.

He watched as he waited, observing each individual almost absentmindedly, yet still picking up the smallest detail. It had become an addiction, a necessity for him; he could never help himself from noticing things.

He spotted her about forty feet down the street, making her way swiftly towards him. Molly Hooper held a cup of coffee in either hand; it had become a habit of hers to bring him a hot drink whenever he was around. She sat down on the bench and wordlessly handed him his coffee. He accepted it silently and they sat for a few moments without saying anything, observing the bustle of everyday life around them.

"Look at them," he said, his voice low and quiet. "They use their eyes every second of the day, yet they're so _blind_. Every single one of them. Nobody sees the real picture."

She said nothing, sipping her coffee and glancing at him sideways.

"Any one of them could look at me and realise who I am."

"You're not that recognisable," she said, her low tone matching his. "The hair makes a difference."

"Anyone can recolour their hair," he scoffed. "And the clothes don't change my face."

"You have a very distinctive look; people are used to seeing you in that coat and scarf. They're not exactly going to expect to see someone who's supposedly dead sitting in the street drinking coffee," she replied, a slightly defensive tone working its way into her voice.

"Exactly. They only see what they expect to see. Nobody _looks_. They're all petty, close-minded idiots."

Her grip on her cup tightened and she rested it on her thighs, her head down.

"Not all of us are geniuses, Sherlock," she said quietly, her tone even.

He looked at her, properly, for the first time in months he realised; the implications of what he had just said dawning on him.

"Not good?" he asked.

"It was a bit insensitive, yeah," she shrugged her shoulders as though it was no big deal and said, "You are right though. We see what we expect to see."

She took another sip of her coffee. He kept looking at her.

Dark limbal rings. Lack of sleep. Bitten nails. Anxiety.

"I saw John the other day," she said. "I don't often see him anymore; usually I ask Mike Stamford how he is."

"And how is he?" Sherlock asked, looking back out across the street.

"Good, good. His limp's getting better and he has a job at a surgery not so far from here. He's seeing someone as well," she said.

His eyes flicked upwards in interest.

"Her name's Mary Morstan, a teacher. I've met her, she's nice."

"Good," he said, pleased that he was getting his life together again. The sooner John forgot about him the better.

Molly said nothing for a while.

"Does he seem happy?" he asked.

She nodded, "He's much better."

They stayed silent for a while, both observing the movements of London around them.

"Why did you call me here?" she asked eventually. "I haven't heard from you in eleven months. I imagine it wasn't just so you could ask about John and complain about ordinary people?"

Sherlock hesitated before finally saying, "I think I'm close to exposing Moriarty."

"Does this mean you'll come back?" she asked, her expression brightening.

He didn't answer. Her smile faltered as she realised what his silence meant.

"You're not coming back," she said. "Why not?"

"If I can, I'll clear my name, but I'm not going to return. The world can continue thinking I'm dead," he said, his voice monotonous.

"But what about John? He needs you," she protested.

"He has a life without me; I'm not essential for his wellbeing."

"Then why try to clear your name?" she demanded.

"Because of him," he said after a pause. "He hated seeing the world hate me. He abhorred the way it labelled me as a fake genius. I'm doing it for him."

"But who's going to clear your name for you?" she asked.

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

"What, me? But I can't –"

"You're the only person who knows I'm alive, Molly. I need you to do this for me," he said, leaning towards her, willing her to oblige.

"I'm not the only one! Your homeless network all know you're alive; they're the ones who helped you survive your fall. Don't they count?" she demanded.

"A random homeless person off the street claiming to have evidence that Moriarty was real? A little suspicious, don't you think?"

"What about your brother?" she asked. "He knows too."

He gave her a contemptuous look and she huffed in frustration.

"Fine, what do I have to do?" she asked, moodily.

"When I have everything ready, I'll give you a file filled with evidence proving my innocence. Give it to Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Don't give it to anyone else; I wouldn't trust them to handle it properly. After that you just have to play your part for the media. Tell them you were a friend of mine and thought my story was surprising and uncharacteristic. Tell John beforehand if possible. Let him think it was you that discovered it all."

She nodded obediently, studying his face intently.

"When will you have all the evidence?" she asked.

"A month or two," he replied. "Not long."

"And what will you do then?" she asked.

"Move on," he said, looking away.

"But why not come back once your name's cleared?" she asked. "The fact that John is recovering is no reason to stay hidden in the shadows."

He hesitated before replying, wondering whether it was wise to tell her at all.

"Moriarty's not dead," he said eventually. "He faked his own death, just like me."

Glancing sideways, he decided that telling her perhaps hadn't been the best choice after all. She looked like she was on the verge of terror.

"But – but how?" she stuttered out finally. "They found his body on the roof!"

It annoyed him how she didn't bother to even try to think about it before asking.

"He had someone like you on the inside. They replaced his body with another's when he was cremated. This is why I can't return, for the same reason I jumped in the first place. If he knows I'm alive again, he'll hunt me down in another of his games and everyone I care about will be in danger. That goes for you too," he said, avoiding all eye contact, making his explanation as brief as possible. "The most I can do is restore my reputation. Moriarty won't like this, but I doubt it will be enough to make him to make a move against anyone. He thinks I'm dead after all. The important thing is that you tell absolutely no one about the evidence until Lestrade has dealt with it, with John being the exception. It's imperative that he doesn't tell anyone either."

"But what if he comes after me?" she asked. "I'm the one who's going to be presenting the information."

"I don't think he will, but I'll get some people from my homeless network to keep an eye on you at all times anyway. They'll alert me immediately if anything looks suspicious and the police if it gets dangerous. I promise no harm will come to you."

The first promise he would live to regret.

"Thank you," she looked down at the coffee in her hands, which had been forgotten for the past few minutes.

The corner of her mouth turned upwards a little.

"You know what I always found odd?" she asked. "After you jumped they called you a fake genius. But even if Moriarty was real and you did plan the kidnapping, you would still be a genius wouldn't you? All that work and planning; it would take a mastermind to come up with it all."

He smiled a little. It was amusing how Molly thought that only a mastermind could come up with all that. To be honest, anyone could do it if they put their mind to it. It didn't take a genius to orchestrate something like that; even she could do it, if she put her mind to it that was.

She brushed a stand of hair out of her face and glanced at her watch.

"I have to go," she said. "I'm meeting someone in half an hour."

She stood up, hitching her bag back onto her shoulder.

"Well, see you round," she said, giving him an awkward wave.

She then turned around and started to walk away.

"Goodbye, Molly" he replied.

He watched her walk all the way down the street and disappear round the side of the cathedral. Raising his neck to look upwards at the sky, he saw the moon was in view and he gave a hint of a smile to its familiar face; the same face that had followed him throughout Europe. He rocked backwards slightly before planting his feet on the ground and standing up. He marched swiftly down the street in the opposite direction to Molly, subconsciously pulling up the collar of his jacket.

* * *

Seven weeks later saw Molly Hooper sitting in her flat, reading the days newspaper. There was a large photo of Sherlock taking up the front page, an old one, the one where he was photographed wearing that deerstalker for the first time. The article was full of the evidence Sherlock had found, including a few words from her and even part of a transcript from a recording taken on his phone. They had misquoted what she'd said, but it didn't matter; the public knew that Sherlock wasn't a fake. She wondered what he would be doing now. His number was on her mobile, but it seemed nosy to pry.

Once she had finished reading the article, she folded the newspaper and placed it on the coffee table, a small smile on her face.

The room exploded.

* * *

_*A light cigarette is light due to the holes in the filter, a long-time smoker will intuitively cover the holes to get a higher nicotine intake, and hence stain their fingers._

_I imagine that this will be roughly three or four chapters long, but I'm horrific at judging things like this so don't pay too much attention to my guess. The next update will hopefully come soon, but despite my procrastinating ways my art project is taking full priority at the moment._

_Most of the deductions came from the A Guide To Deduction blog on Tumblr, which can be found here www . aguidetodeduction . tumblr . com (Remove spaces.)_


	2. Cyanosis

_Well, here's the second chapter. There seem to be mixed thoughts on whether I've killed Molly or not, although considering what I've written in past stories that shouldn't be surprising._

_Warning: some (vaguely?) strong language._

* * *

Greg Lestrade pounded up the stairs to Molly Hooper's flat, breathing heavily. He'd had the call telling him what had happened just minutes after the blast. The paramedics had arrived on the scene at the same time as he had and were following him up the stairs to a woman who was at the very least grievously injured. He never liked to think about the alternative.

The door to her flat had been blown almost off its hinges; still partially attached to the bottom hinge, it swung sadly against the wall. The room was in complete devastation; chairs overturned, a shredded fabric sofa, broken glass everywhere. Molly was sprawled out in the middle of the floor, a sickening amount of blood seeping from her head into the carpet.

To his knowledge there should only be Molly in the flat. Those behind him were the first paramedics on the scene and no one else was in the flat at the time of the blast. Anyone in the apartments' around hers had run outside thinking there was a fire. There shouldn't have been anyone in there, so it was quite suspicious that there was.

A man with strawberry blond hair was crouching over the body of Molly, so naturally Greg immediately pulled out his gun and aimed it at the man. Just as a precaution.

The man looked upwards at him, stood up and then backed away from Molly, raising his hands in surrender.

"Lestrade," he said in an all too familiar voice.

The paramedics ran in past the apparently comatose inspector and started to examine the body on the floor. He barely glanced at them, all concerns for Molly temporarily wiped from his mind. It took him a while to react to what he could see. All evidence said that it was impossible, there was absolutely no way this could be real, and yet his eyes said another thing completely.

"Jesus Christ," he said eventually, bending over and resting his palms on his knees while waiting for his composure to return.

"Lestrade, Molly's in danger," Sherlock said.

He looked upwards at him.

"Well I can see that!" he exclaimed. "Her flat just got blown up!"

He stood upright and attempted to look calm, his mind still stuck somewhere between utter disbelief and shock.

"Is she alright?" he asked.

"Unconscious. Fractured bones. Little or no brain damage. Possibility of gastrointestinal injuries presenting themselves during the next few days. Also a possibility of pulmonary contusion. She will survive if she's taken to the hospital and treated immediately," he said, making sure the paramedics could hear him.

They were already lifting her onto a stretcher to Greg's satisfaction. He moved out of the way to let them pass into the corridor.

After a moment of silence he said, "You're – you're supposed to be dead."

"Sorry for the confusion," Sherlock said bluntly, stalking out of the room.

It took him a moment to react, but when he became fully aware of what he was doing, he leapt forwards and said, "Where do you think you're going?"

He turned back to him looking slightly surprised.

"Where do you expect me to be going?" he asked.

Greg stared at him in disbelief.

"You – you jumped off a building almost three years ago and now you're here! Alive! You could at least explain a little! How did you even get in here? _Why_ are you here?" he almost shouted at him.

Sherlock looked at him as though it was completely obvious.

"To help Molly," he said, gesturing at the room behind them.

"I barely received the call minutes ago. How did you –"

"I knew there was a possibility of an attack on her; I was keeping track of her to make sure she was safe. I survived my fall by using simple logic and the resources available to me. Now if you would excuse me," he said, pushing past the inspector. "Oh, and I would appreciate it if I were to remain dead. It's rather important actually so don't announce that I'm not still six foot under."

As he reached the doorway, another officer appeared in it. Sherlock and Sergeant Donovan stood nose to nose, staring at each other. After a few seconds, Sherlock turned his back to her and walked away, not saying a word. Donovan looked to Greg, her mouth open.

"Was that –?"

"No, definitely not," he said.

* * *

_Molly hated this. She hated the way Sherlock was on the verge of crying; she knew he wouldn't, not in front of her, but he was having a hard time of it. He was sitting at a table and she was standing behind him with her chin resting just on the top of his head, her hand on his shoulder. Her other arm was wrapped around his chest, with his hand clinging to her wrist. She was supposed to be the one comforting him, yet she somehow found that she was also the one being comforted. She had never liked it when people got emotional, especially when they rarely showed that they were hurt, like Sherlock. She knew little about how to go about remedying his ailment, probably because there wasn't a cure for it._

_Just five hours ago, Sherlock had jumped off St Barts and left John collapsed on the pavement. Now there they were in Molly's flat, two cold mugs of tea on the table in front of them; Molly's way of taking care of people._

_They had been in the same position for about forty minutes, neither one of them talking, both knowing that words would do nothing for them. There wasn't much that could do anything to help the situation, but for the moment the friendship they offered each other would suffice._

* * *

When Molly awoke, she immediately became aware of a tube sticking down her throat. Her first instinct was to panic and get it out of her mouth; luckily she was stopped from ripping it from her throat by two hands grasping her forearms tightly. She was then greeted by a familiar face, complete with dyed hair and cheekbones.

She lifted her head off her pillow and tried to speak, but all that came out of her mouth was a sort of wail.

"Don't speak," Sherlock said in his low voice. "It won't do your throat any good."

She took a quick glance around the room they were in; it was easily recognisable as one of the private wards at St Barts, the only thing was she couldn't remember why she was there. It probably had something to do with the fact that she was in large amounts of pain in most places of her body.

Sherlock saved her the bother of trying to recall the details by saying, "Moriarty set explosives in your flat. I'm sorry Molly, I should have taken care of you better."

She tried to gesture with her arm that it was alright, but got distracted by the drip hanging out of it.

"You've been unconscious for a few days," he continued. "You have some fractured bones, mainly ribs, and pulmonary contusion. You avoided any gastrointestinal injuries though, and the doctors were quite worried that you might have some."

In other words, she had bruised lungs caused by chest trauma, which damaged her capillaries, leading to blood and other fluids accumulating in her lung tissue. Basically, it screwed with her gas exchange, hence the tube sticking out of her mouth. It was helping her to breathe, yet it also managed to render her completely incapable of speaking or swallowing, which was very unpleasant and uncomfortable.

"You ought to be able to breathe properly without mechanical ventilation in a few days, although you'll be in hospital for a while longer."

He was silent for a while, before he finally said, "Your mother visited, a few times actually. She said she's going to stay in London until you've recovered. She comes in every day and sits by your bed for a few hours, it's … sweet."

If it weren't for the mechanical ventilation – which she had worked out was a tracheal tube – she might have giggled. Sherlock was clearly unused to saying things like that and it was obvious that he was only trying to be nice to her because she had nearly been blown up, yet she was touched by the fact that he was clearly trying with her.

A sudden thought came to her and she mimed writing something in mid-air. He caught on to what she was trying to say immediately and looked around the room. Unfortunately, hospital wards weren't known for being well supplied with writing equipment, so she decided to improvise.

She waved her hand at him to get his attention again and then held her hand in a fist near her cheek, twisting it, meaning "will" in sign language. She then pointed at Sherlock, clearly meaning "you". Unfortunately, those were two of the few signs she actually knew, so she made up the next part. She signalled for him to "come" and then twisted her arm round as though she was going to touch her back.

"Will you come back?" he said aloud, and she nodded. "The answer's the same as before. I'm sorry that you were caught up in this, but I can't risk others getting hurt."

She gave him a stern glare and then placed her right index finger to the tip of her left middle finger and brought it down her palm and then up to the tip of her thumb. She then touched the tip of her left ring finger, swept her right hand across her left palm and then laid her first two fingers on it.

Sherlock kept his eyes on her hands while she spelt out the name of his best friend, and when she was done they flicked up to meet her own.

"It doesn't make a difference," he said, trying to keep his voice monochromatic, but he didn't seem able to help the hint of emotion creeping into it.

_Yes it does! _she screamed in her mind_. It does matter! You know what faking your death did to him, don't pretend you have no idea! He was broken, he had PTSD, and he still isn't over it! He started limping again, IT'S BEEN ALMOST THREE YEARS AND HE STILL USES A CANE TO WALK WITH, YOU UTTER PRICK!_

Instead of humiliating herself by attempting to say all that out loud she started nodding furiously, giving him a death stare while she was at it. She wondered when she had become so concerned with John's wellbeing. It wasn't like they had ever spoken much before; she had only properly started paying attention to him after Sherlock had asked her to keep an eye on him.

She made a rather violent gesture for "please" and fought against the urge to throw the flower vase on her bedside table at his head.

There was the sound of breaking glass and something streaked past Sherlock, slicing into his arm, splattering his blood against the wall. Molly looked up in panic to see a bullet-shaped hole in the window.

"Hhhhmmghghhnn!" she screamed at him, gesturing wildly to the window.

Another bullet came speeding through the glass and buried itself in the pillow directly next to her head. Sherlock grabbed her round the waist and dragged her to the floor; she squeaked and gasped in pain at the impact with the floor, the tracheal tube jolting in her throat. He forced her to keep her head down, half lying on top of her to protect her from any more bits of broken glass. There was a pause after the second shot, then a few moments later a barrage of ammunition was unleashed on the hospital room. Molly was no expert on weapons, but it sounded like one hell of a destructive gun. After roughly fifteen seconds of the ear-splitting racket it stopped and Sherlock immediately jumped to his feet, scooping her up in his arms and running out of the room into the corridor; not even bothering to dislodge her from the hospital bed sheets, just dragging them along with her.

There were people screaming in the corridor, doctors running about, glass scattered across the floor, a nurse with red fingers pressed to her side, bullet holes everywhere, blood, pain in her chest, lack of breath. Terror settled in as she realised she couldn't breathe.

Molly caught a glimpse at her fingertips, they were purple. Cyanosis. Her tracheal tube must have stopped working somehow. She had five minutes at best. Sherlock seemed to have noticed because he was suddenly shouting for help. As a couple of doctors raced towards them and Sherlock placed her on the ground, she saw someone enter the corridor from the corner of her eye.

It was a man, tall, broad shouldered, striding calmly towards the panic-stricken group, taking his time walking past the damage the gunfire had inflicted upon the hospital. About halfway down the corridor, he stopped and raised a gun, pointing it straight at them. She panicked and flailed her limbs, trying to alert Sherlock while she was incapable of breathing. His head snapped upwards just as the man fired.

* * *

_I'd just like to say that I know very little about pulmonary contusion, cyanosis and tracheal tubes, so if anyone happens to be some sort of doctor and I've got something wrong then please tell me._

_I'm kind of excited about posting the next chapter because John finally turns up and IT CONTAINS THE REUNION! (And I'm sorry about the second cliffhanger. Sorrynotreally.)_


	3. I'm Alive By The Way

_I haven't proof read this chapter as much as I usually do, so if you spot any mistakes please tell me. There's a fight scene that I'm not too sure about in here, I don't know how well I handled it. Also, I may have got a little sloppy with the last scene, the characters were just hard to write._

_(What the hell is up with the horizontal line thingies? They keep going all weird.)_

* * *

The bullet missed Sherlock by centimetres. Quickly glancing down again, he saw that Molly was once more unconscious. There was no possible way he would be able to get her away from the shooter, if he tried to carry her they would both be shot and if he left her and ran she might be shot anyway. Bargaining didn't seem like the best of options, but it was the only one he had right then.

"Don't hurt her," he said, standing protectively in front of her.

The doctors behind him were still frantically trying to remove the tracheal tube from her throat and replace it with something else, apparently the prospect of a patient dying was more concerning than being shot; he was grateful for their priorities and courage.

"I'm not here for her," the man replied. "Just you."

"Good."

Sherlock turned and sprinted away from the shooter and around a corner, ducking the second bullet that came after him. He flew down the new corridor, eyes searching for an escape route. He already had at least nine, but most involved jumping out of windows and falling two floors. A good backup plan, but he would preferably stay intact and getting a close look at his attacker was recommended. He skidded around another corner, and then flattened himself against the wall. The shooter was breathing too loudly and his footsteps were too heavy for him to notice that Sherlock had stopped running.

Just as the man turned the corner, Sherlock struck a punch to his throat. The man fell, but kept a tight grip on his gun and fired wildly at him as he hit the floor. Sherlock dodged the bullet easily and grabbed the man's arm, twisting it so he dropped the gun. (Mark XIX Desert Eagle in .50 Action Express.) He kicked it away down the corridor towards some frightened nurses who jumped away from it as though it were a bomb. They didn't stick around to watch the fight for much longer; he heard the skittering of their feet as they ran off.

The man jabbed his fist at his knee and freed his arm by twisting it out of his grip. Wheezing, his attacker got to his feet. Sherlock sized him up, looking for his strengths and weaknesses.

He immediately recognised him as the rifle shooter who had glanced at him outside St Pauls months ago. An instant explanation for why Molly's flat was blown up and why they were attacked just now; someone knew he was alive. The man was roughly the same height as him, but with a slightly stockier build. He had the weight advantage, but not by much.

The man aimed a punch at his jaw and Sherlock avoided it, only to return a punch a second later. The man caught his wrist and held on, so he held all his fingers on his left hand straight, tucked his thumb in and gave him a knife hand strike to his neck, catching him by surprise. Hopefully he had hit his carotid artery; although if it had or not, he was still stunned for a second, giving him time to pull his arm free. His attacker struck again, this time managing to smack him in the jaw. He staggered backwards, having miscalculated his opponent's strength. The shooter then aimed a kick to Sherlock's chest, knocking him over. He twisted in mid-air to land on his hands and knees, which proved to be a mistake because he was grabbed from behind, arms trapped at his sides. He remedied this by immediately throwing his head back and smacking his opponent in the nose. To his credit, he didn't let go immediately, but a second head-butt made him release his grip on his arms. Before he could move back too far, Sherlock span around and stood up swiftly, thrusting the heel of his palm into the man's nose as he did so, using his position to his advantage and putting all his weight behind the blow. A satisfying crack. Broken nose. He gave a kick to the side of his knee, making him collapse to a kneeling position.

"Who are you, who do you work for?" he demanded, breathing heavily.

"As if you didn't know," he man replied, gruffly.

"Moriarty?"

The man turned and made a sudden dash backwards, covering ten feet in much less time than he should have been able to on the ground. He slid the last couple of feet and grabbed his gun, pointing it straight at the spot he had just been standing. Luckily for Sherlock, he wasn't there anymore.

* * *

_John sat on the ground facing Sherlock. It was raining, but the trees above them sheltered them from the worst of it. He could hear little else apart from the pattering of the water droplets on the leaves. He hadn't spoken for nearly an hour; instead he was just listening; listening to Sherlock's words, even the silent ones. Especially the silent ones._

_As time wore on he would occasionally say something, perhaps a passing remark, or maybe a question. Sherlock rarely answered to anything he said though; he was too busy in his own world._

_It was quite secluded where they sat, just them and the sounds of footsteps in the distance. John paid them no attention._

_"You'll catch a cold out here," a voice said in a matter-of-fact tone a few minutes later._

_John swivelled around to see Anthea standing a few feet away from them – a safe distance. She was alone, which surprised him at first; he had never seen her out of Mycroft's company before. A black umbrella was in her hand, keeping the rain off her_

_"His idea," John grumbled, jerking a thumb at Sherlock._

_"Quite irresponsible of you, Sherlock, making your friend stay outside in the rain," she said lightly._

_He didn't answer._

_"You don't have to do everything he says," she said._

_"Tell Mycroft to piss off."_

_She sighed, irritably._

_"Fine."_

_She left, but not without placing the open umbrella on the ground beside them._

_"Mycroft's getting persistent, isn't he?" he joked._

_The gravestone didn't reply._

* * *

It took John six seconds after his phone started ringing to decide whether he would pick it up or not. He only became suspicious when he didn't recognise the caller ID. People rarely phoned him and Mary was the only one he spoke to regularly over the phone. Nevertheless, he answered it, completely unprepared for what he was about to hear.

"Hello?" he asked.

"John," came a voice from the other end.

He froze mid-step.

"John, I need your help."

The voice was almost pleading with him.

He immediately hit the end call button and threw the phone away from him. It skittered down the pavement, bouncing over the cracks in the ground, eventually coming to a rest next to a litter bin. A couple of seconds later it started ringing again. He tentatively crept forwards to pick it up. He held it in his hand for a few moments before steeling himself to answer it. He pressed the button and held it up to his ear.

"John, don't go back to the flat," the voice said urgently. "It's the first place they'll look for you. There's a cab behind you, get in it."

"Sherlock –"

"Don't ask questions, just do it."

He looked behind him and lo and behold, there was the cab.

"Give me one good reason to," he said.

"You're being followed. There's most likely a hit-man waiting at Baker Street to kill you," he paused. "Um … I'm alive."

"No shit, Sherlock. Either you're one heck of an impressionist or you owe me an explanation."

"You seem to be taking this very calmly."

"That might change when I see you."

"I'll bear that in mind. Please get in the car, there's several people on your street watching you."

"You're turning into Mycroft."

"See you in seventeen minutes."

* * *

Sherlock sat with his back against a crate in an empty warehouse, holding an old rag to his shoulder to stem the flow of blood. It had been a near miss and very lucky; the bullet just grazing against his skin, yet still ripping his flesh enough to make steady bleeding occur.

He had been shot by the sniper through the window, but because of all the adrenalin, he had barely noticed before. Now he was alone – except for a seventeen year old boy sitting opposite him – and was left to his thoughts, the pain was starting to irritate him.

"Are you sure you don't want me to look at that?" the boy asked, looking vaguely concerned at the amount of blood soaking through the rag.

"I need a doctor, not a college dropout," he retorted.

"You're no more qualified than I am," he replied.

"Just leave the supplies here," he said, tossing a twenty pound note across the distance between them.

The money landed just in front of the boy's feet, he reached forward to grab it and then stood up, tossing a rucksack towards him in return. He left, pocketing his money.

Sherlock leant his head back against the crate and closed his eyes. He hoped Molly was alright.

Footsteps alerted him to John's presence in the warehouse. His eyes flew open and he sat up straighter, preparing to see his old friend again. The footsteps stopped.

"John?" he called out. "John, are you there?"

Not that he couldn't tell if it was him or not. The footsteps were easy enough for him to recognise; virtually the same, just with his psychosomatic limp once more.

"John, please. I need your help."

The doctor came slowly into view around the corner, cane visibly by his side.

"Jesus," he breathed when he saw Sherlock.

"I see the similarities, but I assure you I'm not about to tell you to worship an incorporeal and illogical being," he replied.

"This is a new low for you."

"What, explaining religion?"

"Do you know exactly how long it's been?"

"Two years and ten months."

"Almost _three_ years. Three years!"

"In all fairness, Moriarty threatened me that he would kill everyone I cared about if I didn't commit suicide."

"You didn't kill yourself though."

"Obviously."

"You could have told me."

"I did."

"What?"

"I tried to. I told you that I had researched you and then I told you it was all a trick. You should have paid attention to the tenses I used. I couldn't tell you outright because it would have put you in danger."

"Sherlock, I _mourned your death_!"

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"You didn't need to!"

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds.

"John, I'm bleeding."

Reluctantly, the doctor came over to him and crouched down to take a look at his arm. Sherlock turned his head forwards and breathed in deeply.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Not enough," John replied.

"I didn't think it would be."

John pushed his sleeve further up his arm in order to look at the wound.

"Sniper?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Look in the bag, there's some bandages and other things."

"So, start talking," John said, reaching for the bag.

"Sorry?"

"How did you do it? Survive? Was it really you on top of the building?"

He pulled out some bandages and a bottle of water from the bag.

"Of course."

"Then how … St Bart's is about sixteen metres tall."

"I am aware of this fact."

"So how did you do it?"

"Do you want the entire story?"

"Don't skimp on the details," he said, carefully tipping some water onto the wound to clean it.

"I was able to predict Moriarty's next move to a certain extent and not long after I realised that he was going to destroy my reputation using the press; I guessed exactly how he wanted the game to end. From then on, it was a case of gaining the upper hand again."

"You know what, just skip to the explanation."

"I have access to the Homeless Network using my phone, so I arranged for them to be stationed outside St Bart's by the time I was on the roof. I told you to stand in the middle of the road where your view of the pavement below me would be blocked by a small building. When I jumped, my fall was broken by a laundry bin, which I quickly rolled off onto the pavement. It was then removed and placed on the laundry truck which drove off afterwards. Before you could get close, you were knocked over by someone on a bike; this was intentional so the other Homeless Network operatives could get in place. They formed a human barricade around me so you couldn't get close. One of them also poured a bag of blood over me, giving the appearance of serious injury.

"While I was waiting for you to arrive on the roof, I started hyperventilating, leading to controlled breathing, which allowed me to appear to be dead. I put a small rubber ball under my arm to stop the pulse in my wrist so you wouldn't be able to feel it. I was then placed on a trolley and taken away, but as soon as it turned the corner and was out of your view, I switched places with an accomplice and hid in the phone box on the corner. Molly pronounced me dead and handled the medical and legal cover-up. I then went into hiding, trying to gather enough information to clear my name."

"And so, when Molly gave all that evidence to the press, you gave it to her," he said.

"Yes."

"She's known this whole time then? Anyone else? Mycroft? Mrs Hudson? Was I the only one who didn't know?"

"Mycroft knew. I didn't exactly keep in much contact with him though."

John nodded, keeping his head low. A moment later he raised it with a furrowed brow.

"But why didn't you come back when your name was cleared?" he asked.

"You would still have been in danger. You're in danger now; it's why I told you not to go back to Baker Street."

"Why am I in danger?"

"Moriarty's not dead."

"What?! But they found his body on the roof!"

"You think I'm the only one who can fake their death?" he said irritably.

John hesitated and then said, "I should just stop being surprised at all this. Anything else I should know?"

"It wasn't a gas explosion at Molly's apartment. Moriarty tried to kill her because of what she did for me. There was another attempt on her life as well as mine just now. We were shot at in St Barts."

"Is she alright?"

"The last time I saw her she had cyanosis, but she was surrounded by doctors so she ought to be fine."

"There. You're done," John said, finishing bandaging his arm and rocking backwards on his heels to sit down. "So what do we do now if we can't go back to Baker Street?"

"Oh I don't know," said a horrifically familiar voice. "Maybe stick around a while. After all there's a lot to catch up on."

John's eyes widened in fear and Sherlock's breathing accelerated. The consulting criminal came into view around the corner, hands in pockets.

"Hello!" he called, cracking a grin. "Long time no see, Sherlock."

John scrambled to his feet, but Sherlock stayed sitting.

"You know, I was surprised when one of my cohorts told me he had spotted you at St Pauls Cathedral eight weeks ago. I made a mistake, I underestimated you, but now I see even more how alike we are."

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, don't you see? When you fell off that building I thought I'd won! I thought that I was the victor, the champion! But then it got _boring_. There's no one quite like you, Sherlock. Even taunting your brother got dull in the end. So imagine how I felt when I heard you were alive!"

"You're going to start another one of your games then?"

"Perhaps, but this time there's a small difference. I'm adding some new stakes this time."

"Oh?"

"I'm going to be paying a visit to one of your friends soon, you won't see them for a while afterwards, so you should probably start saying your goodbyes now," he taunted.

"I would have thought that you wouldn't underestimate me this time around."

"Who said I wasn't?"

"Don't you – don't you dare hurt anyone!" John shouted.

"John," Sherlock said, trying in vain to silence him.

"Who do you think I should start with John? Maybe your little girlfriend, Mary?"

John moved so fast, Sherlock barely saw the gun before it had been fired. The bullet missed Moriarty by inches, the man in question ducking out of the way. Sherlock jumped to his feet in a late attempt to stop him. The air around them was suddenly rent with gunfire and he grabbed John by the collar and dragged him to the ground.

"STOP!" Moriarty yelled.

The gunfire died away and John shoved Sherlock's hand off him. They both looked to Moriarty, whose expression was furious. He had his gaze trained somewhere above them, the rafters perhaps?

"You do NOT kill them!" he shouted. "Were you not listening to a _thing_ I said?!"

Somewhere above them came a low chuckle.

"Do you _want _to be boiled in hot wax?"

There was no answer, but Sherlock was given the impression that whoever it was had a large grin on his face.

Still fuming, Moriarty turned back towards them and regained his composure a little.

"I'll see you quite soon, Sherlock. Enjoy the next few weeks while you can."

With that he turned around and walked away. John scrambled to his feet and tried to chase him. Sherlock grabbed the back of his jacket and tried to pull him back.

"Get off me," the doctor snarled, swiping a hand at him.

"There's no point," he said. "They'll only kill you if you try to harm him."

"Then what do I do?" he asked, turning around to face him.

"We protect her. Alert the police, Mycroft, everyone."

"You couldn't protect Molly," he accused, a deep dislike hidden behind his eyes.

"That's not a mistake I'm going to make again soon."

The second promise he would live to regret.

* * *

_The next chapter will be the last and probably quite a short one, so no, I'm not going to be elaborating on Moriarty and Mary. I don't have the time for it._


End file.
